I could write something trite of your death.
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Something saccharine about all that you are worth were worth.
Do I use then the past tense, the present, the imperfect for the perfect, imperfect you?
How I recall those lazy days this last summer and the one before that
the help you provided, making icons of icons, yourself so iconic,
your beauty so real, so becoming that I became not just a fan but a friend,
your publisher, protectant, your ally in arms just as you became mine.
Claire, where do I put you now?
Do I erase your name, your number from my rolodex,
the gentle erase of the pencil mark, the electronic blip that says gone in a handheld device
when all I want, love, is your own hand in mine as it ever was.
How enthusiastic you were, bringing my own gift, my illness to the fore,
and me, so ignorant, not knowing of your own quick hard struggles.
How long had you suffered? How many times did you never say, I hurt,
Can no one see these tears? The ones you kept so well hid from the most of us.
You are here. You are gone. Why then this loneliness. Why do is it I feel you near, yet far
as if you wre reaching me with your heavenly lightbulb fingers,
your electric eyes and that Venus body all made for the loving
and god, love you we did.
What are we to do now, without you but watch the sea as it rolls in,
greyed whitecap after whitecap, missing each move of your pen,
missing the swirl of your handwriting, the movement of your hip,
the image of you before us now here, now gone.
in memorium | C.R.
sadi ranson-polizzotti, november, 2005